


Thirst Quencher

by ForbiddenPisces



Category: Harry Styles - Fandom
Genre: Drabble, F/M, Harry Styles - Freeform, One Shot, handsy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-09
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:42:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 13,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25168657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ForbiddenPisces/pseuds/ForbiddenPisces
Summary: A collection of drabbles, oneshots, smutty shorts, etc. to release some of my pent up thirst - enjoy!
Relationships: Harry Styles/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 14





	1. 6 Inch Heels

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a little drabble I wanted to put together about my fav aquarius prince <3 Please leave feedback!

He ran a slow, nimble finger down the length of my spine, starting at the nape of my neck and stopping right above the dimples at my hips. A shiver ran through me, stoking a heaviness between my thighs I hadn’t been prepared for. He traced the gown’s open back, humming appreciatively as the silk gave way beneath his hands. “Harry,” a warning feathered over my teeth when he slipped a hand beneath the dress to grab at my ass.

“Shh, love—let me look for a minute. We’ve got time, yeah?” he patted my butt gently before continuing his gentle caress, dragging his fingers along the deep V-neck divide between my breasts.

We absolutely did not have time. We were already 20 minutes late because Harry stopped to get a chocolate bar from my favorite dispensary. “For your nerves,” he’d said, presenting the cannabis laced candy like a magician presented his tricks. But I couldn’t blame him for wanting to soothe my worries away.

At that moment, the only thing I could blame him for was the sad and useless state of my undergarments and the yearning in my belly that was starting to thrum with anticipation. He was staring at me, circling me like a shark, like I was something to feast upon. Nothing but storm clouds and lust in his green eyes. He should have known the gown would look like this – he’d picked it out himself. The millennial fashion king spared no expense to ensure I would look and feel good on his arm tonight. My red-carpet debut, and our first industry outing since we announced our relationship, was sure to be a tabloid highlight.

As if he could hear my gears turning, he stopped in front of me, tilting my chin up. “You alright? Are you comfortable?” The desperate want that had darkened his gaze just seconds prior was now replaced with fuzzy anxiety. He ran a tentative hand from the thigh high slit to my waist. “You know you don’t have to go, babe. I don’t have to go. Say the word and we’ll stay in tonight and eat Thai food and watch Will Smith movies.”

That damned gentlemanly charm. He couldn’t not go – he was presenting, and his appearance would be sorely missed. Not to mention the headache his absence would create for the production team. In the depths of my soul, I knew he would stay home if I simply asked. He would help me out of the gown, grab my fuzziest pajamas, make me a cup of tea, and snuggle beside me for an early night in. He would do anything for me. But he also knew how much I hated disappointing people, even people I didn’t know. He knew I wouldn’t want to burden an entire team of professionals just because I was feeling insecure and moody.

He tapped me gently on the nose. “Tell me what you want, and I’ll do it. If you want the best of both worlds, I can even have Thai food delivered to the show.”

“I’ll be fine, Haz.”

“You promise? You’re not just saying that?” he circled his arms around my waist and held me close. “I know this is weird and it’s going to be stressful. But I want you to be happy and comfortable.”

I melted at his sincerity, but as sweet as he was being, I was starting to miss his salacious gaze. “Harry,” I drawled lowly, tucking my fingers into his hair. “I promise that I’ll be fine. As long as you’re beside me, I’ll be happy and comfortable, okay?”

He nodded, double checking that my eyes hadn’t glazed over in sheer panic. “Okay.”

“Good. Now, if you’re quite finished ogling me, I think we ought to go. We’re already late.” I took hold of his hand and marched him toward the front door where two dark SUVs were waiting to escort us to the venue.

“Whoa, whoa, who said anything—”

I kissed him quickly just to shut him up. Maybe it was the chocolate loosening my muscles or maybe it was my blinding adoration for this man. In either case, a slow smile split my lips. “Just keep me upright, okay? These shoes could kill someone.”

He cocked his head, dragged his eyes down the length of me. A brazen smirk lit his cheeks, and he pulled me closer. He pressed a kiss to my temple before whispering, his breath hot on my neck, “When we get home tonight, leave your heels on. I have plans for you.”


	2. Just a Taste

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baking with Harry is always tasty.

“I see you’ve started without me.” His voice was light, but I noted the edge of disappointment.

I whipped around, holding the bowl of batter against my chest, “I got excited.” Harry only laughed before dropping his bag on the floor and starting toward me. At that moment, the oven dinged, and I felt my face flush. He cocked his head at me, a devilish smirk on his cheeks. Before he could say anything, I squeaked, “Those are cupcakes!”

“You really have no patience, love.” He slid the baking dish out of the oven before turning back to me with amused eyes. “What’ve you got there?"

“Well, I thought…if the cupcakes went south, then I should have a backup. This is my grandmother’s brownie recipe.”

He encroached my personal space to stare into the mixing bowl between us. Without warning, he stuck his finger an inch deep in the batter and pulled it back out. “Let’s give it a taste, shall we?”

My eyes fell to his perfectly puckered mouth as he sucked the sticky sweet from his digit. The smile he adopted at the taste sent a warmth to the base of my spine. I took my lip between my teeth.

“Don’t you want some?”

“I—” but he’d already dunked his finger again, this time raising it to my lips. I hesitated for a moment before unhinging my jaw to slip his finger along my tongue. When I caught his gaze, I noticed his eyes had darkened since he walked in. As my lips curved around his knuckles, I watched an indelicate shiver shoot through him. I cleaned his finger of all the batter before I pulled off him with a pop.

“You really should’ve waited for me,” he murmured, tracing a wet line around my lips.

Panic strummed in my chest, and I turned away from him toward the ingredients on the counter behind me. It looked like a tornado had spun through and covered every horizontal surface with a fine dusting of flour. “Shit, it’s no good? What does it need? More salt?” I reached for the salt grinder and prepared to grind, but then Harry placed his hand over mine and steadied it against the granite top.

“I never said that,” he breathed against my ear, his body trapping me between a rock and a hard place. With slow, deft movements, he began to untie the knot in my apron.

I swallowed harshly, “But something’s wrong, isn’t it? I should have—”

“Love, the batter was great,” his lips were nestled against the curve where my shoulder met my neck, his hands wandering my hips and waist. He nipped at my collarbone, smiled, sank his fingers into my ass. “But I want to taste something else now.”


	3. God's Favorite

I dropped my phone unceremoniously on the bar top, my grunt of dissatisfaction drowned out by the sounds of Saturday night. I was being stood up. Again. Fool me once, shame on him. To fool me twice, shame on me. Fool me three times? Now I was just pathetic. To hell with men. I had come out because he promised he wouldn’t flake last minute, but alas. Promises, promises. Now I was stuck in a swanky hotel bar looking like an 11 out of 10 without a date. I had dressed my best, hoping I could convince my only-in-New York boy toy that I was an _absolute_ catch and he should feel lucky to be seen with me. But on my last 3 ventures to the East Coast, I’d been left disappointed again and again. I waved my hand at Martin to indicate that indeed, I was prepared for my 4th round of vodka tonic, and hell, I might even stay for a 5th. As he slid the drink in front of me, a ringed hand attached to a tattooed forearm appeared on my left.

“Put it on my tab, yeah?”

The scowl was already etched into my cheeks as I whipped my head around. “I can buy my own—” my reproach faltered when I met jarring green eyes and a thin-lipped smirk that hinted at a sensual confidence reserved for the bedroom.

“I know you can.” He turned that smirk into a smile, and a dimple curved into his cheek. Now that wasn’t fair. Pretty boys with green eyes, wavy brown hair, and legs for days didn’t get to have dimples. That was cheating. My scowl of irritation was replaced with a scowl of suspicion. He held up his hands in surrender, “No expectations. I just thought you could use a—”

“And an English accent! You really are God’s favorite.” I took a long pull on my drink, glaring at him over the rim.

He stifled a laugh, “I’m sorry?” Even his giggle was precious. Now God was taunting me, of course. Having a perfectly average man ditch me and then introducing a new, level-up player with all of the too-perfect attributes? Ha! This sexy stranger had to have a dark side. Like maybe he made methamphetamine in his garage or was some kind of hot mercenary with a long kill streak and my name on his hit list or maybe he was really, really bad in bed. The first two seemed more likely than the last, if only because I could see myself sunbathing on his plump bottom lip before using his face as a seat. In any case, he certainly didn’t get to sit there looking like sex on a platter without working for my attention. As one powerful Black woman once said, make his pockets hurt.

I squared my shoulders and gestured for him to sit beside me. “I’ll tell you what. I’ll let you buy my drinks. Consider it your donation to the global reparations fund.”

Another one of those cursed smirks split his face, “In that case, can I buy you dinner as well? It’s not good to drink on an empty stomach.”

“I don’t eat with strangers.” Now I was just being difficult for the sake of being difficult – who says they don’t eat with strangers?—but he took it in stride.

Without missing a beat, he reached for my hand, “I’m Harry.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Harry.”

Long, bejeweled fingers wrapped around my palm. He held our introductory handshake low between our knees. He raised one perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “Don’t I get to know your name?”

I paused, taking a sip of my drink. His eyes flashed briefly to my lips when I swiped at an escaped droplet. I cocked my head to the side and openly appraised him, dragging my eyes from the top of his deep brown locks, over his angular face, past his narrow frame and swimmers build, along the black straight-leg trousers to his shiny, Gucci shoes. I pursed my lips and returned my gaze to his face, a coy grin on my cheeks. “I’ll tell you in the morning.”


	4. Truth, Dare or Drink?

I drained my shot. Winced. I had a love-hate relationship with tequila. Mostly hate. I swallowed the Coke chaser before shivering and dragging my eyes up to my drinking partner. Her cheeks were red, and she was giggling. That was good. Better than her sobbing on my couch just a few hours ago. I told her I would slash Theo’s tires, but she said she still loved him. I put 2 different knives in my purse just in case she changed her mind after a few drinks and dancing with strangers.

“Okay, okay! It’s your turn. Truth, dare, or drink?”

I pretended to consider my options as if I hadn’t picked dare every round she asked the same questions. “Dare.”

“I dare you—holy shit.” Her blue eyes widened until she looked like a cartoon character from a Disney Pixar original, her gaze tracking someone just over my shoulder.

“What is it?” I flicked my head around, and immediately caught the sparkly man who walked through the front door. Ah, yes. Him. Perfectly coiffed wavy brown hair, curling over elven ears and a chiseled jaw line, he looked like an angel that enjoyed his fair share of sinning. He greeted a pair of men by the corner, and a dimpled smirk popped up on his lips. I could spy those tattoos on his chest and arms from my perch at the bar. An indelicate slip of desire tingled in my spine.

My attention returned to my awestruck friend beside me. I shook my head, “You want him? I can wave him down.” That was how our relationship worked. She would be too wowed or too shy to lure them in, whereas I had zero qualms getting men to approach. That was how I saved so much money in college: I was just charming enough to get free drinks without ever sacrificing a night of my life to mediocre sex with mediocre men.

Emma shook her head, “No, no—he’s not really my type, and Theo—anyway…he’s just…like…captivating. He walked in and everyone stared at him, almost like he’s a science project.”

I frowned, “That’s sad. Quit staring at him. Let him have his drink with his friends. I picked dare. Whatcha got for me?”

A wicked gleam sparked in her eyes. “Oh, I know!” she leaned into my ear and whispered loudly over the music. My cheeks split in a laugh. This was stupid, but it would be fun.

As she returned to her seat, I cocked my head, “Is that all?”

“Seal the deal,” she used her chin to gesture for me to get going.

Ignoring the nerves that put butterflies in my stomach, I rolled my eyes and slid off my stool. I pasted on my orthodontia-corrected smile, turned up the volume of my personality, and stoked the flames of competition in my gut. Almost automatically, I dragged my nails up the inside of my forearm, tracing the pattern inked in my skin. A little sailboat inside of a glass bottle on turbulent waters.

I spun around and strode off toward his group of friends. As if he could tell I was approaching, he caught my eyes. He was all comfort, lounged on the one side of the booth, leaning his back against the stickered wall, his legs kicked out and crossed at the ankles and his hands clasped behind his head. He was expansive. While I walked, I held his gaze and matched his curious smirk with my own mischievous grin.

By the time I stopped at his table, his green eyes were dancing in the dim lighting, and his tablemates were watching me. I tapped his boots with my knee, and he swung his legs back under the table. His eyes never left mine as I slid into the booth beside him. Our thighs pressed together on the vinyl. Five seconds of uninterrupted eye contact passed before one of his companions cleared their throat.

“I’m sorry, miss, can we help you with something?”

“He can,” I said clearly, blinking and turning to face the other men. “You guys mind if I tell him a secret really quickly?”

Embarrassed chuckles vibrated in their throats, but they shook their heads. “Go on then.”

As my eyes settled on the tattooed man once more, a flood of something primal dampened my skin. I ran through the dare in my head before I leaned closer, pressing my lips lightly to his ear. “As soon as I saw you, I imagined tracing your tattoos with my tongue.” I paused to gauge his reaction, keeping my mouth against his skin. All I could see was his dimpled cheeks tinged pink with blush. Thinking with my hormones instead of with my head, I added, “Where would you like me to start? And where would you like to finish?”

His startled choke pleased me. I leaned back against the booth and watched him struggle to compose himself. He took a long pull from his beer stein before turning to me, humor in his eyes. Lifting one hand, he pushed my hair back from my shoulder and tapped the small hummingbird behind my ear. His finger was gentle but feeling his skin on mine sent a fervor to my belly. He leaned, pressed his lips to the small tattoo, and muttered, “You’re quite dangerous, you know? Now, go back to your friend so I can watch you walk away. I’ll come get you in 20 minutes, and we’ll discuss your questions.” He tugged gently on my ear before squeezing my bare knee and shrugging back into the booth, a satisfied smirk on his lips.

Now _this_ was an interesting change of events.

I hadn’t anticipated such a salacious response nor had I anticipated he’d show up tonight. Our running flirtationship had caught us at multiple bars at multiple hours over the course of multiple weeks, but that’s all it was. Harmless, tipsy flirting at bars and clubs around the city. It had never advanced to actually exchanging numbers or taking our lustful whispers out of the loud, dingy wood-paneled backdrops and into the plush warmth of a bedroom. The bold quote Emma had delegated for my dare had been far more direct than I’d ever been, and a large part of me believed he’d be turned off by the openly wanton nature. A very, very small part of me hoped he’d guide me to the backdoor and kiss me senseless. But no part of me expected he’d return my daring mumbles with his own more demanding words.

But still I should have known better.

I cooled my expression and raised my brow. Catching me off-guard was no easy feat, and such actions had to be met with a bit of playful competition. I poked my tongue out, wetting my lips, before I said clearly enough for his table-partners to hear, “I might change my mind before then. 20 minutes is a long time, and you’re a bit bossy.”

That damned smirk appeared again, and I had to clench my thighs to stop them from trembling. We were going off script now, and the risk was exhilarating.

He chuckled lowly and eyed me, painting my skin with his gaze. I suddenly felt all too aware of my necklace’s chilly metallic weight, the way it sank beneath the collar of my dress and nestled between the shadow of cleavage. My brown skin glowed in the olive piece when I was looking in my bedroom mirror, but now, I wondered if I seemed washed out or faintly ill.

Being openly appraised in such a way brought my insecurities to the forefront, but seeing a hint of desire in the way his jaw tensed and relaxed made me sit up a bit straighter, adjusting myself to meet his towering height. I propped my elbow on the tabletop to feign a lazy, amused confidence, as if I experienced this kind of heated observation all the time and I was merely entertaining his curiosity.

When he peeped the swirling ink on my thigh, his grin broadened, and he met my eyes again. He leaned into my ear, taking one finger and tracing the tattoo up my leg before it disappeared beneath my dress. I resisted the urge to shiver as his voice, now heady and rough, drifted in my ear, “Give me 15 minutes, and I’ll show you who’s boss.”

I turned my head and our noses were less than an inch apart. “Make it ten, and you can boss me around any day of the week.”

A wolfish smile dimpled his cheeks. “You sure you want that?”

I nodded and offered a wink, fully expecting him to settle back into the booth and laugh aloud, waving me away as had been our pattern over the duration of our meetings. He would say something filthy. I would turn coy and bat him away. I would say something filthy. He would laugh and shake his head.

This time he didn’t do either of those options. Instead, his gaze darkened, and he ran his tongue over his teeth.

His sudden intensity surprised me. Turning my head, I cleared my throat and adopted a cordial tone. “My apologies for interrupting your evening, gentleman. Enjoy your drinks.” And like that, I slipped from their table and returned to Emma’s side. I could feel his gaze tunneling through my back, but I paid him no mind.

Until 10 minutes later, he approached Emma and me with a disarming grin. He wrapped his palm around the nape of my neck and growled lowly against my temple. “Unlock your phone for me.” His sweet, porter ale breath coerced my eyes to flutter when it fell against my shoulder. Once my home screen opened, he instructed me to add his number to my contacts. “Call me when you’re ready to make good on your promises.”

“Yes, sir,” I mumbled, unthinking.

As soon as the last word floated over my lips, his fingers tangled in my hair and pulled. I could almost feel his teeth nibbling on my ear when he mumbled, “That’s my girl. Get used to saying that.”


	5. WWRD: What Would Rihanna Do?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a bit more explicit in nature - not super explicit, but definitely more...insinuation. If you're sensitive to that content, please don't read on!  
> I also wanted to write something that makes asking for consent sexy because it is! Have y'all ever been in a place where you're staring at the person and they're staring at you and they're looking at your mouth and then they look you in the eyes and say, "Can I kiss you?" HOLY SH!T THE POWER TRIP IS JUST *chef's kiss*  
> I am a huge advocate for active, enthusiastic, consistent consent before and during any kind of ~activities~, and a general check in following said activities. Maybe it's because my Mercury is in Aquarius but I think communication is critical to foreplay and pleasure.
> 
> Anywhooooo, enjoy
> 
> xoxo ForbiddenPisces

Harry lounged in the living room, his narrow six-foot build expanding gracefully across the too-small sofa. It was borderline disrespectful how he could be so comfortable, look so completely at ease, while I had to shore up in the bathroom to get my shit together after he platonically draped his arm around my shoulder.

_4…3…2…1…_ I counted backwards in my head to quell my nerves. On the surface, I was cool, steadfast, unbothered. But underneath, my blood roared and my heart grumbled with agitation.

This was not the time for insecurity. Oh no. I had gone 25 years in this well-cushioned frame, spending the first decade and a half in a deep pit of self-loathing and only taking on a Bad Bitch mindset in the last 5 years when it became popular to be Thiccc with three C’s, and all the better if it was “natural.” Those 5 years in the middle were a period of oscillation between “I can never look in the mirror” and “Every day is a photo shoot”. I counted backwards again, feeling my limbs soften and my joints relax. I silently thanked my therapist for her self-soothing strategies because it was absolutely her doing I was able to cope with my anxiety and _not_ the 2 shots of whiskey I’d slammed right before Harry strode through my front door.

Today, of all days, and this moment, of all moments: I needed to embody my Rihanna mentality.

Today was the day I was going to seduce my best friend.

“Babe, where’s the popcorn?” I heard him shout from the kitchen.

He said it casually, as if we used pet names with one another regularly. Which was true. We did. But still, when he called me babe, I couldn’t fight that fledgling hope from creeping up my stomach and into my heart.

I gave myself a hard look and watched my mouth reflect the words: “You are hot as fuck.” Shrugging into the short black robe, I flicked off the bathroom light and turned into the kitchen. The only real source of light was coming from my TV. Everything else was only kind of illuminated from the three giant candles I had set out that afternoon to rid my home of the burnt cookie scent I accidentally unleashed.

I was acutely aware of my cheeks seeping from the silky shorts and my breasts sliding along the material unrestrained as I slipped silently into the kitchen. His back was to me, those gangly tattooed arms reaching easily into the top shelf of my cupboards. A rueful grin found my face when I noticed he’d taken out almost all of my food and splayed it across the countertops. He always did that.

My knees shook but my voice was steady, “I had to move the popcorn down because I couldn’t reach it.”

He didn’t turn. He just bent down, sticking out his firm-but-flat bum and rifling through more cupboards, again pulling out all the food as he went. “Well I could get it for you if you needed. Putting it down here is the worst. I’ve got a bad back, y’know.”

A laugh racked my chest, “You don’t even live here.”

“True,” his voice was muffled as he rooted through my nonperishables and canned goods. I wondered when I should tell him that I hid the popcorn in my bedroom to lure him into my lust dungeon. “But I mean…I’m here practically every night, and it’s not like you’re eating popcorn alone. Unless—ow!” he bonked his head trying to whip around to face me.

From his seat on the floor I knew he would be eye-level with my dimpled thighs and shadowy knees the second he turned around. He would _see_ my fleshy bits adorned in shiny lingerie as opposed to my ever-present, mustard-stained, high school cheer sweats. That 5-year self-love rollercoaster shot crudely up my spine, and I tried to ignore my shy inner-self as she celebrated the dim lighting.

Eventually, Harry wriggled his way out from under my counter, threading fingers into his lush curls. He situated himself with his back against the oven door before breaking his concentration on the food scattered around the floor.

I saw his eyes go wide and his jaw drop and I wished I hadn’t been cursed with poor vision. I wanted to see his emerald gaze as he soaked in my figure. I wanted to see his pupils dilate with desire, like I’m sure mine had. I wanted to see his fair skin tinged pink.

But alas. Candles are sexy because of the details they omit. I had to rely on inference and imagination to know how Harry’s body was responding….

Because _he_ wasn’t saying anything at all.

_5…4…3…shit._

Insecurity reared her ugly head, and my mask of Fenty Fierceness dissolved. I pulled the robe tight across my body and tucked one tree-trunk leg behind the other. _Maybe if I can make him think I’m smaller—_

“Oh my God,” he suddenly sputtered. “You…you look—”

“I look stupid. I know.”

“What?”

The heat of embarrassment choked me. I backed out of the kitchen—because God forbid, he saw my squishy butt—and walked to my bedroom. I didn’t bother turning on the lights or closing the door. All I needed was to get out of those ridiculous fucking shorts and that dumb fucking camisole and that soft fucking robe…well…maybe I could wear the robe.

I flung the silk set into the trash can—or…as close to the trash can as I could guess—as I whipped article after article from my body. Now I just needed my sweatpants, an oversized hoodie, fuzzy socks and another shot or 4. I groped blindly for my Friendship Appropriate clothes, hypersensitive to my thighs and belly jiggling with my movements.

“Wait—”

The light flipped on.

“Harry!” I screamed, grabbing the closest thing I could find to cover myself (one of my pillows) and turning to face him. He stood in the threshold of my room, one hand extended toward me, the other pinching the light switch.

“Jesus,” he sighed lowly.

“Getoutturnoffthelightwhatareyoudoinggoaway!” It all stumbled from my mouth before I could ask what faith had to do with his intrusion.

He lifted both hands in a gesture of peace. “Okay, okay. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

The light went out, and a pained breath flew from my lips.

“Thank you. I’ll be just a minute. Can you shut the door as you go?” my voice was almost a whimper now. Rihanna would’ve been disappointed.

“Go? I’m not going anywhere. We need to talk. You just—”

“Harry, please. I’m feeling really insecure and vulnerable right now, and your rejection is more than I can manage. So please, just go,” now I really was whimpering. _Fuck! Don’t you fucking cry! You’re a bad bitch! Pull it together!_

He was quiet for a long moment. All I could hear was my restless shuffling and his labored breathing. I counted to sixty and then back to one.

“Harry?”

“Can I please turn on the light?”

“No.”

“Can I come closer?”

“Why?”

“I want to touch you.”

My heart lurched so hard in my chest I thought it broke my ribs. “You want…”

“To touch you, please. You can’t…you just…you walk out to the kitchen, give me a glimpse of—but then y-you ran away and I didn’t get—and then I turned on the lights and you were—but you panicked and now I have an idea of what you look like naked and you won’t let me turn on the lights again but I want—I _need_ —to feel you. Please.”

My whole body vibrated. A single disbelieving syllable fled my mouth: “Why?”

“Because you’re incredible.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

My internal monologue took on two voices, with one wanting to call Harry a liar, and the other wanting to roll my eyes and shrug: _obviously, this isn’t new information to me_. A self-conscious war brewed inside me for several moments. I was distracted for so long that I missed Harry’s slow approach and the rustling of fabric over skin.

“Here, what if we…just take my hands and you guide me to the places I can touch you. We’ll move at your speed.” He was close enough I could smell his beer-sweet breath blending with the perfume I’d spritzed around my bed earlier.

I held my breath and closed my eyes, counting backwards amid a raging mental battle.

_100…99…98…he can touch me…96…but what if…no, shut up…93…he might be repulsed…91…90…89…he’s lucky to be here at all…87…86…he wouldn’t ask to touch if he didn’t want to feel…80…maybe he wants to feel…_

“Okay,” one arm cinched the pillow closer while the other reached out, seeking his hand. I had barely touched his fingers when he gripped onto me with a sudden force that made me gasp.

“Sorry, sorry—just, um…go ahead,” he mumbled, relaxing his grasp slightly but I could still feel how his hand was trembling and his skin was clammy. I moved my fingers to his wrist, considered a moment, then placed his palm on my shoulder and held it there. I wondered if he would yank it back, my body aflame, leaving ugly scorch marks on his pale skin.

But he didn’t.

He splayed his fingers and pressed into me gently. A gust of air left his mouth and fell on my face. He giggled. “I’m quite familiar with this part of you. If I’m not mistaken, your tattoo is right…here.” _Bingo._ His index bounced on the initials inked into my collarbone. “Your gran’s handwriting, yeah?”

“Mhmm,” I hummed. His intimate knowledge of my body and what was permanently etched into it gave me a surge of confidence. I dragged his hand to my side, stopping just at my ribs. His favorite place to tickle me whenever I had something he wanted.

“Oh, God, you’re so soft,” he exhaled slowly, his thumb rubbing back and forth so lightly it made me shiver. He swallowed hard, “Can I only use one hand?”

“I can’t hold your hands and keep the pillow up.”

“So drop the pillow.”

My skin felt too hot and too tight. I was going to explode. I couldn’t…. _75…74…73…72…71…70—_

“Can I show you where you can touch me?”

“…okay.”

He gave my side a little squeeze, pushing an unintended laugh out of my mouth, before turning my hand over in his. Lips curved over my knuckles before my fingers were flattened against warm, soft skin. An enthusiastic hamster must have been slamming against him from inside because _holy shit, what is that thumping?_

“I want this, okay? I want you. I’m not going to reject you. Not now, not ever. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you how beautiful you are the moment I saw you. I thought maybe I was dreaming…” he slid my hand across his chest, down his stomach to the waistband of his sweatpants where _something else_ was throbbing.

“Oh my.”

_Fucking brilliant, you noob! Don’t act so shocked._

“We can go as fast or as slow as you want, but please, please know that I’ve thought about you for years and holy shit, this—you—are so much better than anything I could’ve imagined.”

“Harry, I—”

“Can I kiss you?”

“…yes.”

I led his fingers to my neck, and he tugged on a curl at the base of my skull. I heard his tentative smile when he whispered: “Can I use both hands?”

“Yes.” Knowing what glimpses of me had done to him gave me the last bit of courage I needed to drop the pillow from between us and step close enough for my chest to brush his toned stomach. Harry sighed long and low while I took his other hand and placed it on my waist. I felt shy, exploratory lips on my forehead, trailing down to my eyes and nose, and when I tilted my head, his mouth sealed over mine and I crumbled against him. He was slow, delicate pressure and featherlight touches. He cradled my head in one hand, spread the other across my back. He held me like I was something precious and fragile, and I could feel the restraint in his pounding chest.

I pulled back just a smidge, and his lips chased me. Before I knew what I was doing I had both of his wrists in mine and I was gliding his hands all along my stomach, chest, back, arms. Every now and then his fingers flexed and squeezed at my particularly soft parts. “You can touch me anywhere, just don’t turn on the lights.”

He paused. “If that’s what you want tonight, I’m okay with that. But I’d like to see you in the morning sun tomorrow.”

“Harry,” something between a moan and a warning feathered over my teeth, but whatever was on my mind disappeared when he kissed me again and pushed me to sit down. As he encroached, there was a strange crunch under his step.

His touch left me for just a moment, but I could hear the rustle of plastic and I could smell the butter and salt. I held my breath until his hands rested on my thighs. “Why is the popcorn in your room?”

_Thank God it’s dark!_ My cheeks flushed with embarrassment. I cleared my throat, but my voice was noticeably wobbling. “Whaaaat? Popcorn? That’s… _ahem_ …so weird.”


	6. Sunday Souls

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one is a bit softer, sweeter, more wholesome.  
> we stan etta, ella, louis, otis, aretha in this house.  
> as always, i love feedback <3
> 
> xoxo forbiddenpisces

I frowned at nothing. My lips hung low and my jaw clenched. The empty white wall smirked at my indecision and gloated in its desertedness. Whatcha gonna do, huh? If I were stronger and more prone to violence, I would have punched the wall right in its nonexistent face, pulling chunks of eggshell paint from my bloodied knuckles for weeks to come. How dare it mock me when it lacked all personality! Nothing that reminded me of stale bread would have the audacity.

But, as it stood, I was not prone to physical violence. I was a mightier-pen-than-sword kind of bitch, and yes, my pen was mighty. I could intellectually eviscerate even the greatest of thinkers without breaking a sweat. But how does one wreak intellectual havoc on a solid mass of drywall, insulation, and wooden beams?

Arms wrapped around my middle, startling me from my stewing thoughts. “If you think any harder, you’ll start steaming.” Ah, yes. The only voice that could ever possibly soothe me and stop me from considering destruction. Harry pressed a chaste kiss to my cheek.

I laced my fingers through his as they pressed into my now protruding belly. “But it’s just so….bleh.”

He smiled against my temple and teased, “Bleh? Is that a fancy new word you learned in your fancy school for your fancy degree?”

“Oh, hush! You know what I mean! Now be quiet. I’m thinking.”

“Nope, too much thinking. Not enough dancing. Come, come!” He pulled me back from the wall, out of the room, and down the hallway. He picked up a remote, pressed a few buttons. As I stared at him, I heard the inimitable voice of Etta James crescendo over the speakers built into the ceiling, a luxury I now realized I couldn’t live without. My eyes closed immediately. There was something so heavenly about Etta’s snare drum sound, the way it could grab me by the throat and coax me into prayer. I hadn’t noticed I was swaying slightly until Harry looped one arm around my waist and used the other to hold my hand against his chest.

A dimpled smirk met my eyes as I glanced up. “You’re slick, mister,” I teased before leaning my head against his chest. I tried to ignore the slight adjustments we had to make that we didn’t have to consider a few months ago. He smelled like laundry and a little bit of sweat and the Thai food we had for lunch. The plain white t-shirt hung loosely off his narrow frame, but he felt soft and malleable and strong. I dropped my arms to his waist and hugged him close while we swayed in place.

The song stirred the air around us, vibrating Harry’s chest as he hummed the words into my hair. “I do my Sunday dreaming…and all my Sunday scheming…every minute…every hour…every day.”

My muscles loosened with every sung syllable until I was almost certain I could fall asleep standing in his embrace. What I wouldn’t do to start and end every day just like this. Wordlessly entwined, soul-soft vocals cushioning the space around us, a third, little heartbeat thump-thumping in time with ours. This was as close to heaven I was convinced I could ever get in this lifetime. Just as my eyes closed again, a sudden, almost painful, lurch against my belly button made me gasp.

Harry stopped moving and turned my chin to look up. Concern and excitement formed a crooked cocktail in his throat. “Was that….”

“I don’t know,” I shrugged and looked down at the limited space between our bodies.

We held each other for a long moment, neither of us breathing too loudly, and stared at my belly. Etta’s sultry vibrato faded away, and Louis Armstrong’s earthy gruffness appeared, and as soon as his trumpet echoed around the room, another _PING_ struck my navel.

“Oh…oh my God,” Harry dropped to his knees and circled his hands around my stomach. “Hi, baby, hi. Can you hear me? It’s Daddy.” I could barely hear his praiseful whispers over the music, but I could feel what his voice was doing to the little sprout inside me. There was a gentle but persistent fluttering, almost like a little bird was performing tricks. He lifted my shirt and pressed his lips to stomach. “Hi, baby, I love you. I love you so much.” He glanced up at me with blurry eyes…or maybe it was my eyes that were blurry. Either way, he looked up at me and grinned a silly, sappy, happy, lip-splitting smile. “How are you? How does it feel?”

I just shook my head for a second before a choked noise escaped me, and I started to cry. Joy and a fresh sense of panic tangled my tongue. “B-but the w-walls! And the crib and what about school I haven’t finished my dissertation yet I’m not ready we’re not ready what if I can’t graduate and I have to take a year off or more what if something happens and we haven’t painted the walls, Harry! What color are we going to paint the walls?!”

He stood up and crushed me in a hug that forced all the air from my lungs. He kissed the words into my forehead, and I begged my internal monolog to shut the hell up for just 2 minutes. “We’ve got time, love. We’ve got time.”


	7. Handle with Care

“It’s okay, babe. You can be rough with me.” I sit on the floor, my knees pressing against my chest. My eyes start to close with his slow, rhythmic pulling. His fingers are delicate and cursory, like he’s exploring something holy.

Which, in a way, he is.

“Let me know if I hurt you,” Harry mumbles softly above me, but I don’t say anything. He’s much gentler than I am. His touch is more…graceful, whereas mine is often hurried through such a process. Perhaps playing the guitar has given him the fine motor control I so desperately lack. We are silent companions for a moment, sharing in each other’s warmth and breath. The only sound comes from his iPhone. Nina’s heartache bleeds into the air with as much precision as a viper, and then immediately lulls me into a contentment I haven’t felt in years.

“How long does it take you normally?” he whispers, the tugging a bit more insistent now.

I smile into the familiar feeling. I relax my jaw and neck and sink deeper against the sofa. My lips tilt, and my eyes open. “Are you worried?”

“No, no…I just…am I doing okay?” His cheeks are pink, but his fingers don’t let on to any embarrassment, continuing the slippery pinch-and-pull necessary for a smooth finish. I’m impressed he’s caught on so quickly, though I did offer some elementary guidance. While his voice may tremble with a hint of anxiety, his digits work knowingly. Perhaps he’s so attentive that he’s caught on to my flinches and shivers and adjusts course as needed.

His need for assurance warms me, envelops me into a cushiony haven where I know I am safe and loved if only because of the way he caresses each precious strand. I reach for him, sliding my fingers along his jaw, and his hands still. “You’re doing great for your first time.”

He plants an appreciative kiss on my forehead before going back to work, running each tress through his knuckles. “Has anyone else done this for you?”

My head falls forward as he rakes through the curls at my nape. My hair is still wet, and the microfiber cloth around my shoulders is nearly soaked through, and I’m starting to get cold. “When I was younger, I would go to my grandma or my aunties, but that was so long ago. I’ve been doing it myself for at least ten years now.”

“And you do this every week?”

I giggle at his confusion, “Wash day is my one sacred ritual. I haven’t deviated since…probably since my sister was born. But this is new for me.”

“How do you mean?”

I tilt my head back to grin at him, “You, my love, are the first man I’ve let detangle my hair.”

He pauses and meets my gaze. Through my peripheries I can see conditioner coating the tips of each finger. He’s being thorough, and the thought makes me grin. How blessed I am to be loved by a man who cares for me so intimately. I watch him soak in the information I’ve divulged. His pupils expand just a tad, making his green eyes softer. An innocent smile breaks on his lips. “Can I be the first and only?”

A feeling closes my throat, and for a moment, I am simply lost in the bubblegum pink of his lips and that one dimple that’s deeper than the other. His smile tells me he loves me better than words ever could. “Are you saying you want to help me next week?”

He nods. A few strands of his own hair fall across his forehead. “And every week after that, if you’ll let me.”

My heart clenches, and a tear forms in the corner of my eye.

Harry’s grin falls, and he slides his hands from my hair. “Oh, God, did I hurt you? I’m sorry. I didn’t—”

“Every week?” I choke out.

A beat passes. His lips spread again. He returns his hands to my curls. Nina’s voice fades into a fairy swirl that caresses my ears and makes me feel ethereal.


	8. No "I" in Team

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm not super happy with this drabble. unsure why. but would LOVE feedback. i've been sitting on it for _months_ and i can't figure out how to get it right. plz help
> 
> xoxo  
> forbiddenpisces

My head hurt. My skin felt too tight for my body, my cheeks still damp and my eyes completely drained. _So this is what it feels like to have a broken heart._ Nervous sweat peppered my skin and curled the hair at the base of my skull. I trembled violently, despite being wrapped in sweaters and blankets. _Am I going into shock?_

Heavy footsteps thundered down the hardwood corridor. Harry threw himself into the room panting. Panic folded his eyebrows into ugly lines, but they still couldn’t mar his perfect, _perfect_ gaze. Those damn eyes alone could have made me change my mind.

But I couldn’t go back now. It was too late.

He shook his head violently, a misty sheen clouding his eyes. “No.”

“Please—”

“No, no wait. You were just going to leave? I get home, and your car is parked in the driveway and there’s a fucking letter taped to the refrigerator and all it says is ‘I’m sorry’? What the fuck is that about?” he approached me with balled fists, glaring at the bed we’d shared so many nights ago.

I had washed the sheets and replaced the bedding with something he’d picked out years before. I hoped that seeing his old sheets would make my departure less painful. Watching the rage, fear, and absolute sorrow flash across his features, I realized that maybe I’d been rather naïve.

He braced his hands on his hips and sighed lowly, sinking his eyes to the floor at his feet. “If I hadn’t told you I was coming home early, would you have left without saying goodbye?”

“Harry, I—”

“It’s a yes or no question.”

I swallowed the sob that threatened to rip from my throat. “Yes, I would have left without saying anything.”

“So…what was the plan then?” He scowled at me, using his arms to gesture at the absurdity of it all. “You leave. I come back to an empty house after three months on the road, read a letter with two words on it, and then what? That’s it? We just wipe our hands of three years together? Never speak again? What—would you have changed your number, too? So I couldn’t even call you to find out what the hell went wrong? What did I even do?” his voice broke at the end, and with it went another piece of my heart.

Tears pooled in my eyes. I stood up and the blankets fell away to clump at my feet. My fingers reached for his face, but I refrained and shoved them into my sweatshirt pocket. “Harry, it’s not like that. You did nothing wrong, okay? Please know that this has nothing to do with you. It’s me—”

“That’s bullshit! Don’t give me some bullshit cliché about it’s not you it’s me. We’re in this together. It’s us or nothing, I told you that at the beginning, so don’t feed me a line about how this has nothing to do with me. We’re a team.”

My stony resolve snapped like a taut rubber band, and I began to scream. “No, we’re not! We haven’t been a team in months, Harry. We’re not even playing the same game anymore!”

“Don’t cry, please don’t cry,” he rushed toward me, his demeanor flipping into the soft protector I first fell in love with. I closed my eyes while he crushed me in a hug and whispered “I love you” into my hair. Tearless sobs wracked my chest and left me trembling in his arms. Large palms pressed into my back, careful fingers dragging along my spine.

Eventually my voice returned, and I muttered into his chest, “It’s not working, Harry. We’re not working.”

“Be specific, love. What’s not working?” He curled one hand around my neck and tilted my face up to meet his eyes. His other hand massaged the back of my neck in soothing, seductive circles.

“I thought I could do this long term. I thought—” I sniffled, “—maybe I could learn to be okay with it, but I can’t.” I pushed away from him. There was no way I could say anything else with the way his skin warmed me with the lightest touch. I had to get away from him, gain some clarity. I practiced this speech a hundred times from the time he called me to say he was coming home early to just before he opened the bedroom door. I was ready. I had all the lines.

I closed my eyes and leaned my head against the panoramic window I’d grown to detest the more days I awoke alone. The Los Angeles skyline became ugly and abrasive. The heavy smog was suffocating. It never felt that way when we’d drive down the 101 in his convertible. The big houses and endless traffic felt more like one giant community when he was beside me, one hand on the steering wheel and the other laced in mine. Now the crowds birthed anxiety, the sounds of rush hour were daily headaches, and the house—this house—was too big to feel like home. Our room became my temporary living quarters.

Harry approached quietly behind me and rested his hands on my shoulders. “Tell me what you need.”

I forced myself to swallow any tears that I hadn’t yet shed. I cleared my throat, but kept my eyes closed. I couldn’t bear to see his face while mouthing the words that bled into nonsense the more I said them. They might no longer hold meaning to me, but I knew it would crush him. “I need more, Harry. More time, more affection, more attention…I need more of you, but I could never in a million years ask you to pick me. I don’t want you to pick me. I want you to pick you and what makes you happy and that’s being on tour. These past three months are the happiest I’ve seen you in so long, and I wasn’t with you. I don’t make you happy, and I can’t keep pretending that I do because I’m breaking my own heart. Every time you would come back home, I would wonder if you wished you were somewhere else. I can’t do that anymore. It hurts me too much.”

I turned to him, gripped his shirt in my fists, and stared fiercely into his shattered emerald eyes. “But let me be painfully clear: I’m not leaving because of anything you did, Harry. Please know that. You told me early on that your career was number one, that making music was what you loved more than anything. You told me you loved how independent I was, how I didn’t seem to need you. You did nothing wrong, okay? I was the one who fell in love with a man who couldn’t love me in the ways I didn’t know I needed. You were honest about what you needed from the beginning. I’m the one whose needs changed, so I need to be the one to leave. You deserve to be happy, and I’m not what makes you happy. The problem is me.”

A sad smile dimpled his cheeks, and a solitary tear dripped from his lashes. He wiped his thumbs under my eyes, catching the drops I thought I’d rid myself of hours ago. An emphatic whisper, “My sweet, adamant narcissist.”

My head jerked back so hard it smacked the glass behind me. “Excuse me? Narcissist?”

He stifled a chuckle at my expense, but I could see the corner of his eyes lift in amusement. “Yes, narcissist. How dare you presume to know better than I do the things and people that make me happy. How bold of you to assert that over the course of three years it is only you whose needs have changed. How…undeservingly confident you are to suggest that the man I was before I fell in love with you has the same priorities as the man I am today. How selfish it is for you to believe it is only you in this relationship and thus you must bear all of its burdens. I have been beside you for years, my love. _We are a team._ ” His words were a reproach, but his voice was velvet soft and full of admiration.

“I….I don’t understand. All the times we talked—”

“I couldn’t admit to you that I was miserable without you. Everyone knew I missed you, how much I wanted to come back home. But anytime I ever say I need you, you drop everything you’re doing to _find me and comfort me_.”

“I don’t see what’s wrong with that. I love you, of course I’ll find and comfort you.”

“Babe, the last time I said I missed you, you cancelled your auditions, missed your nephew’s 2nd birthday party, bought the next ticket to London, and surprised me outside of the studio in the pouring rain without a jacket on. You were there for less than 48 hours before we were flying back home, and then you had a nasty cold for the next week,” a nostalgic smirk gave his mouth a crooked line.

“But that was…and you said—I was just—”

“I put my acting skills to work, trying to convince you I was fine and happy and having a grand time, when in reality every morning was gray, and every night was painfully, painfully vestal.”

I frowned at him. “Harry, you should have called me. I could have rescheduled—”

He snapped and pointed at me. “That! Right there! That’s it! You would have dropped your responsibilities to comfort me, and I couldn’t do that to you. I can’t ask you to pick between me and your goals. That isn’t fair.” He twirled an escaped ringlet around his finger, using his thumb to brush my cheek.

“But still…you could’ve at least told me.” I felt my mouth pull down in a petulant child’s pout and was immediately embarrassed. I shook my head, straightened my sweater. “It’s whatever, honestly. You don’t _have_ to miss me. That’s not like…a requirement of our relationship or anything. We talked—"

He slid his palm over my mouth and pressed my back to the window. “Weren’t you wondering why I came home early?”

My lungs burned from holding my breath, but a long exhale swept through my nose. I nodded.

“I missed you. I couldn’t go two more days, let alone two more months, without seeing you,” he moved his hand, only to pull his thumb along my bottom lip. His eyes were homed in on my mouth, so when I let my tongue out to swipe across the pad of his finger, his intense gaze flickered.

“Promise me something?” my lips dragged against his thumb while I spoke.

“Anything.”

I let my hands slide up his chest, and I tapped a syncopated beat to the rhythm of his heart. “Don’t use your acting skills on me anymore. If you miss me, just tell me. Please?”

A grin. “I can agree to that. Will you promise me something?”

“Of course.”

“Well, first off,” he draped his arms around my waist, pulling me against him. “It would be great if, the next time you decide you’re going to leave me, you would please tell me ahead of time.”

A rueful grin fluttered on my lips, but I conceded. “Yeah, that was a bad move. I’m really sorry about that.”

“I forgive you, and I apologize for the part I played in making you feel like I wasn’t happy with you. Could you also promise that you won’t abandon your responsibilities and goals for me? We’re a team.”

I closed my eyes, held up three fingers in a scout’s honor. “I promise to ignore your every request for my presence because I will be simply too busy chasing my dreams.”

“Ha, ha,” he said sardonically, tickling at my sides.

I giggled and wrapped my arms around his neck, “I promise I won’t abandon my responsibilities and goals.”

“Good. We’re in this together, right?”

“Yes, sir. We’re a team.” I gave him my most radiant smile, though it was probably tainted with a splash of guilt and embarrassment. “So what now?”

The way he eyed me over gave me those first night tingles I remembered from so long ago. His hands roamed over my back for a moment while his gaze painted my front, “I have a few ideas in mind.” He pressed his lips to my cheek before sliding them to my ear. “I sure hope you’re hydrated because I’m not letting you go until we’ve made up for lost time.”


	9. Parental Guidance Advised

He wouldn’t admit it, but I could tell he was nervous. He kept fidgeting with his rings and pushing his hair behind his ear. Every smile he passed me was cursory at best. For most of the afternoon, he kept his eyes glued to the clock above the mantle.

I padded into the living room, “Hey, babe—”

“Jesus!” he started and spun to face me. “You scared the shit out of me.”

“I live here.”

“Very funny,” he scrunched his nose at me before standing to pace in front of the fire. Ring fidgeting? Check.

“Harry, you need to relax.”

“How can I relax? I’m meeting _your parents_.” Hair pushing? Check.

I jumped in front of him—“They’re not mobsters”—but to no avail. He simply turned ninety degrees and paced a different path.

He gestured at the front door, presumably suggesting that the threshold was all that separated us from the looming presence of parents. “But you love them.”

“And I love you.”

“Yeah, but they _made you_. You’ve known them your whole life. What if they don’t like me? What do they know about me? About us? _Oh my God_ , do they know we share a bed? I need to go. I can’t be here. I have to drive up after them—right, yeah and then it’ll look like you live here and I’m just a visitor. Better yet, I don’t have to be here at all. I can go stay—”

“Harry—babe, slow down,” I braced my palms against his chest and pushed him to sit down again. Once seated, he exhaled a long, slow breath and tented his brows. I climbed onto his lap, straddling his hips with my knees. “Look at me,” I demanded, circling my hands around his neck.

Those precious green eyes peeked up at me through long lashes. His apprehension was both adorable and annoying. No matter how many times I explained it to him, he couldn’t get it through that gloriously thick skull that my parents weren’t assholes. He spent the entire week leading up to their visit on a cleaning binge. He even went so far as to bar me from using the kitchen and insisted we order food every night so my folks would think we kept our home as pristine as humanly possible. That bar lasted only one night after he caught me in the kitchen at 3am with a spoon of Rocky Road halfway to my mouth. Never before had I seen a man scrub a shower so meticulously, nor insist on dry cleaning the bedroom drapes, not once but twice.

“I love you so much,” I whispered, brushing my thumb along his cheek.

He tilted his chin and kissed me chastely, “I love you. I’m sorry. It’s just…. The only other time I’ve met the parents of a woman I’m dating was years ago, and she was in the industry in some way. Her parents understood how tabloids can distort the truth. But with you, things are so different. Your parents…. I just want them to approve.”

“Harry, they’re my parents, but _you are my partner_. The only approval you should seek is mine, okay? Besides, they know the woman they raised. If I didn’t think you were a worthy person to spend my time with, I wouldn’t have given you my number, and I certainly wouldn’t have moved in with you. My time is valuable. I wouldn’t waste it. So please know that I have every confidence that they will love you, if only because I do.”

He folded his head against my chest, circled his arms around my waist, and held me tight. “You’re right. I know you’re right. But still…do they know we sleep together?” A laugh racked my throat before I could stop it. Harry’s head snapped up. “Oh my God, _they know_? Did you _tell them_?”

“Oh, honey, of course they know. We’re two consenting adults in a healthy, loving relationship who now live together. I didn’t have to tell them.”

“But—but—”

I slid my hand over his mouth. “Enough. No ‘buts’. We’re not having this conversation right now. They’re going to be here in a few hours, and then it’ll be the four of us for a week. Which means this is your last chance to make me scream for the next 7 days, and I’m not going to let this opportunity pass us by. So. The ball is in your court. I am going to _our bedroom_. If you’re not there in five minutes, I’m starting without you.” I gave his shoulder a quick pat and slid off his lap. As I walked down the hallway, I heard the undeniable thump of rushing feet.

Harry zipped past me, his shirt halfway off his head, and hollered as he rounded the corner, “Last one there has to be on top!”


	10. Under the Mistletoe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Holidays, y'all!  
> This is part 1 of my version of 12 days of Kinkmas!  
> I'll be posting multiple chapters in one day bc I *forgot how time works* and now it's the 7 days until Christmas Eve & I have 11 more chapters to write.  
> LOL I'M DOING FINE
> 
> OH also, I've been wanting to be a little more ~descriptive~ lately, but I'll make sure to indicate whether chapters are explicit in nature in the notes before the chapter so folks can turn away if they're not interested.
> 
> this chapter: rated M for language and innuendo.  
> CW // mention of claustrophobia

I braced myself against the bitter cold of New England winter. A huge scarf piled around my neck meant I couldn’t see nearly as well as needed. Navigating to this vacation rental was proving to be far more difficult, and I was three ice patches away from dropping the box of wine and lying down in a snowdrift in a stranger’s front lawn. I pretended that it was the weather spurring my bad mood, but in my heart of hearts, I knew it was the strings of longing that were making me anxious and definitely un-festive.

It was only that day that Kaitlyn alerted me to the nature of this weekend’s guestlist. Whereas I had been thinking it would just be the two of us, she informed me that _no, Jamie’s friends are coming too!_

Jamie, a complete badass and good for Kaitlyn in a way that none of the exes were, was a fashion and event photographer and was so frequently on location for shoots that I had nearly forgot she existed. She spent almost all of her time in New York, skirting around A-list celebrities and charming the pants off of magazine executives. Just last year her spread of Zendaya went viral and two months later she was taking meetings with Vogue, Elle, and Cosmopolitan, to name a few.

One of Jamie’s closest friends was a man who I had been crushing on since I was a teen, screaming the lyrics to “What Makes You Beautiful” in my first car on my way to volleyball practice. Apparently, Jamie and Harry Styles bonded quickly over their shared love of a Swiss author after a particularly daunting shoot back when Harry’s first album came out, and just like that: forever friends. Wherever Harry was, Jamie was nearby in some way, and vice versa.

Harry and I had met many, many times over the course of Jamie and Kaitlyn’s relationship. At birthday parties, fashion weeks, concerts, photoshoots—anything and everything for almost three years, we were the de facto plus ones of our best friends’ outings, and for three years, I pined over a man who couldn’t have been less interested. We were cordial, of course. Friendly, even on a bad day. But never anything beyond the customary greetings expected of a relationship duo’s best friends, especially when those best friends had vastly different social statuses. Harry was an A-List. I wasn’t even in the alphabet.

Which made my unrequited feelings all the more pathetic.

I should’ve gotten the hint early on when he was in entanglements with other A-Lists or simply too busy to think of anything but work, but I didn’t. I pined. I yearned. I crushed on a man who lived his whole life in a completely different world and couldn’t even pick me out of a crowd, I imagined.

But still, I hoped that _maybe_ this time would be different. _Maybe_ this time he’d see _me_ and want _me_. But alas, our relationship was not the one 14-year-old me concocted in her sweet, fanfiction days of yore. This was adulthood, and that meant I was left on the outs every time we saw each other for three fucking years.

 _That_ was the reason for my sour mood. How many times was I expected to primp and preen only to end up home alone, all made up and hairless, gorging myself on Ben & Jerry’s and watching _Jersey Shore_ reruns in my underwear?

I was irked because despite my best efforts and annoyed internal grumblings, I had let a little seed of wishful thinking sprout, and as I walked closer and closer to what I assumed was the right cabin, I couldn’t stop my heart from fluttering at the idea of who waited for me behind the heavy wood door.

Using the corner of the box in my hands, I pressed the doorbell and yelled out: “Open up, sluts! I brought goodies!”

I could hear the faintest trace of music and squeals of laughter before light spilled out and the door swung open. Kaitlyn enveloped me immediately, grunting as the box cut into her ribs. “You made it!” She ushered me in and took the wine from my arms. “Everyone’s here already. I’ll make you a cup of cocoa. Coats go in there!”

I shivered but nodded my understanding and started to de-layer. As I shoved my boots into the closet, I heard quiet padding that signaled I was not alone. I flicked my eyes over my shoulder and grinned in relief. “Hey Jamie, it’s good to see you.”

We hugged briefly. “You, too. No skis?” She lifted her chin, gesturing to my one backpack.

“Not this time. I just want to hang out, drink myself silly, and watch the snow fall. Maybe catch up on a little writing.”

“Oh, perfect! You and Harry can hang out!”

I stifled my nervous gasp. “What?”

But before I could hear any explanation, Kaitlyn shouted from somewhere beyond the intricately decorated foyer. “Cocoa is getting cold!”

Jamie wrapped a protective arm around me and guided me into a kitchen where a steaming mug of hot chocolate waited for me. Mini marshmallows made divots in a fluffy whipped cream layer, and behind a giant crockpot Kaitlyn doled out another ladleful of drink.

“Help yourself, honey bear!”

I put the mug to my lips and coughed before I’d even taken a sip. “Holy shit, Kaitlyn, what is this?”

“Is it too much?” she faced me with a frown.

An earthy British voice rumbled behind me, and I felt my stomach tighten. “It’s strong, but if you can get past the scent, it’s perfect.” Resisting the urge to whip around and swoon, I turned to face him with meticulous nonchalance. His green eyes bored into mine and a dimpled grin spread his lips. “Hello, love.”

A simmering blush burned my cheeks as I moved closer to him. “Hello.” My throat suddenly felt like I’d swallowed eggshells, and I was sure my voice sounded like it.

“May I hug you?” he offered, following the pattern we’d developed so many moons ago.

Kaitlyn had apparently warned him of my weird feelings about being touched before we met the first time because when Jamie introduced us, Harry didn’t even offer me his hand to shake. He merely bowed to me and grinned. The fact that he’d kept this gentleman’s charm and asked for my consent every single time he saw me did nothing to quell the yearning in my belly.

I nodded and offered a small smile, “Yes, thank you for asking.”

His arms circled me slowly, winding around my waist and back. He had to lean a little bit—the freaking giant that he was—and I sank my chin onto his shoulder.

Insecurity reared up my throat as I felt my heart begin to race. I had to focus my energy on not leaping out of my skin at the way his palms pressed gently into my spine. Whereas his touch ignited a deep lust in the base of my hips, others’ affections felt more like being trapped. I hated hugging ever since I was a child after some relatively dramatic episodes of claustrophobia, but with Harry I never felt anxious. I only ever felt restless and undeserving of such close contact. Who was _I_ to crave the attention of a superstar? Writing fanfiction in my teens was far different than knowing the man in my 20s, and I knew it was going to take everything in me to play it cool this weekend because I was _not_ going to let my hopes be dashed. Not this time.

His chest expanded against mine with two deep breaths, and at one point it almost felt as if he’d pressed his lips into the crook of my neck, and before I knew what I was doing I shirked out of his embrace and took a calculated step back because if I’d been squished against him for a moment more I was going to melt.

Of that I was certain.

His sweater and the chamomile scent of his cologne and the warmth of his body…it was all too much for me to handle.

My palms started to sweat.

_Fuck!_

I pulled the sleeves of my sweater down and folded my arms across my chest. I couldn’t even bear to look him in the eyes. I cleared my throat. “So, Harry—how are things?”

The night passed quickly—thank God—and I felt myself loosen up as Kaitlyn ladled me mug after mug of cocoa. Jamie explained that her other friends had gotten called away, and wouldn’t make it out until Monday, so it was just the four of us for the weekend. We drank and chatted, played board games, and as the night wore on, Harry recommended we watch a movie.

The cabin wasn’t giant by any means, but there were two love seats and a recliner in the den, all facing a large flat screen television above a roaring log fireplace. I sprawled into one of the loveseats but realized too late I had forgotten my most necessary items. “Harry,” I drawled lowly.

From his crouch in front of the fire he cast a lazy, half-lidded glance my direction. “Yeah, babe?”

Kahlua tampered the little butterflies in my stomach. _He calls everyone babe, relax._ I gestured loosely to the mug of mostly liquor and the fuzzy blanket I had left in front of the coffee table. “Please? I’m so cold.” I shivered for dramatic effect.

He snorted but rose to his feet, plucked the drink and blanket from the ground, and approached me. “Scoot over,” he kneed my ankles off the armrest and slid his bony butt next to mine.

Alarm bells rang (albeit, dimly) in my ears, but I was too intoxicated—from the cocoa and his proximity—to do anything but comply. I accommodated his narrow build as much as I could, but it didn’t stop our thighs and shoulders from being smushed together. I scowled at him. After reaching for the remote and hitting play on the movie, he braced his arm around my shoulder.

A shocked whisper fled my lips. “What are you doing?”

“What do you mean?” he turned to me with a look of genuine confusion.

“There is a perfectly good recliner just over there.” My finger jab was not anywhere in the direction of the recliner, but I made my point. “Why are you sitting here with me?”

“You…you said you were cold?” the dancing light of the screen was distracting, but I could’ve sworn I saw a flash of embarrassment cross his features. He dropped his gaze and mumbled softly, “I thought you wanted me to sit with you.”

 _Wholesome!_ My inner fangirl screamed. My outer, tipsy adult grinned at him stupidly. “Of course, I do. I just didn’t expect you to _actually_ sit next to me.”

“Why wouldn’t I?” a curious smirk tilted his lips.

“Because you don’t like me, duh,” I slapped a hand over my mouth, but it was too late. I watched Harry’s eyes widen dramatically and his jaw unhinge and his brows furrow into shock.

“ _What?_ ” he exclaimed and was instantly shushed by Kaitlyn and Jamie in the other loveseat.

“Hey, shut the fuck up. I can’t hear what they’re saying,” Jamie flicked her middle finger up, but Harry paid her no attention. His eyes were trained on me.

I offered a pained simper. “Oh, look—the movie’s starting. Let’s sit silently and not speak or say anything for the next hour and forty-two minutes.” I turned my attention to the screen and willed my body to stop trembling.

After thirty minutes, I could still feel his gaze burning into my temple, but I couldn’t take it anymore. I flicked the blanket off and shuffled to the kitchen as silently as I could.

_Just breathe. It’s okay. It was a harmless, drunken statement._

The water from the tap was icy and perfect for splashing on my face in an attempt to cool my embarrassment. Droplets clung to my lashes and _plinked_ into the basin as I hunched against the sink.

I had managed to take three deep breaths before I felt someone behind me. A hint of jasmine and musk hit my nostrils before his finger tapped my shoulder. I let a groan seep out. “We don’t have to—”

“What made you think I don’t like you?” his voice was taffy, all sweet and languid.

I huffed. “Can you pass me a towel?” My hand jutted out to the left where he draped a microfiber hand towel. I blotted my face, straightened my spine, and turned to him. “Thank you,” I muttered, leaning against the counter in a way that I hoped would suggest a kind of amused confidence and not rampant anxiety.

Silence drew out in the spaces between our breaths, the tension hard to ignore and even harder to acknowledge. Our eyes were locked on each other, and we waited for the other to make a move. Time either slowed or sped up, but in no way felt like reality.

_Don’t get your hopes up!_

It was only due to the alcohol running through my blood that I had such a firm resolution. Had I been stone cold sober I wouldn’t have been able to make eye contact at all, let alone prolonged, silent eye contact after I had just said something earthshattering-ly embarrassing. But thanks to my good friend Kahlua, I was able to meet his emeralds without too much fear or agonizing self-awareness.

Harry was the first to break the trance, and his step forward almost startled me. In a whisper, he asked again, “Why do you think I don’t like you?”

I shrugged, “You’ve never suggested otherwise.”

“So, you just assumed I didn’t?” Another step forward.

“I’m not your type, Harry, and that’s okay. We really don’t—”

“Wait, my _type_?”

“Yeah, you know—the Jenners and Gucci and Vogue and all the supermodels and musicians, et cetera et cetera. I’m not _interesting_ in that way.”

A smile broke on his lips and released those precious fucking dimples. “I think you’re fascinating.”

“Right, like a science experiment or a zoo animal—”

He surged forward suddenly and braced his palm over my mouth. “Shh, shh—can you stop for just one second?” He met my eyes. I nodded. “I think you’re fascinating because you’re brilliant and kind and funny and warm and honest. You hold people accountable, and that’s so bloody powerful. Don’t you see? You scare me and inspire me in the same breath.”

Pulling his fingers from my face, I cocked my head. “I’m getting mixed messages.”

He laughed then, genuinely laughed and seeing him express such joy—even at my expense—made my heart sing. He tugged on a curl by my ear. “Of course, I like you. I just turn into this aloof, arsehole when I’m intimidated, and _you intimidate me_.”  
“So…what you’re saying is—”

“Hey, you two,” Jamie’s harsh whisper startled us both, and we jumped apart.

Kaitlyn held on to Jamie in a half-asleep piggyback but offered us a tired smile. “We’re going—oh! Mistletoe!” She exclaimed as excitedly as she could, pointing above my head to the single sprig of mistletoe hanging off the kitchen chandelier. Placing her head back into the crook of her partner’s neck, she mumbled, “That means they have to kiss! Jamie, make them kiss!”

“Okay, just close your eyes,” Jamie soothed, before mouthing to us ‘ _you don’t have to kiss_ ’. She turned out of the kitchen. “Goodnight, y’all. Make sure the fire’s out before you go to bed.”

Kaitlyn whined, “But babe—”

“They need some privacy!”

Heated silence followed their exit. I still hadn’t fully grasped what Harry had said, and I was totally prepared to believe it was a fluke or my drunken imagination, but then he turned, looked up at the dangling greenery, and gazed at me with the kind of tenderness reserved for private moments between lovers.

He encroached on my space once again, leaving mere inches between us. Our height difference meant my eyes were level with his neck, and as I spied the columns of his throat, I felt myself start to salivate. A hooked index finger snuck under my chin and tilted my head back until our gazes locked.

His voice was a heady mixture of cocoa and lust when he said, “May I kiss you?”

My thighs clenched together and the butterflies in my stomach were hammering against my muscles and all of me felt too alive and too warm, but I nodded anyway and braced myself.

He slid his hands to my neck and stroked a gentle pattern along my cheekbones before pressing his lips softly against mine.

But as quickly as it happened it was over. Just a breath, a feather of touch and then it was done.

He dropped his hands from my face and stepped back, sighing lowly as he leaned on the island.

“Hey!” I was petulant, I knew I was, but dammit, after three years of foreplay I think I earned the right to be a little bit of a brat. “Come back here,” I demanded. I was seconds away from stamping my foot.

He dropped his eyes to the ground. “I can’t.”

Shame hit me in the gut. I straightened my sweater and nodded my concession. “Ah, I see. Well, hate to say I told you so, but—”

“If I kiss you again, I won’t be able to stop.”

A beat passed.

“I don’t see a problem with that,” despite the blood rushing to my face, I felt bold.

A dark chuckle rattled in his chest, and he adorned a dangerous, yet charming, grin. “May I kiss you again?”

“Yes, ple—” his hands were in my hair and his lips were on mouth before I could finish my thought. Whereas his fingers were rough, tugging and pulling at my hair, his kiss was soft and malleable, sliding delicately between affectionate and erotic. I reached out and clutched onto his sides, humming a contented sigh through my nose.

He backed me against the counter before pulling away just slightly. His lips brushed over mine when he asked, “May I take you to bed?”

I pressed my mouth to his quickly, “You can take me anywhere.”


End file.
